


Make It Better

by Inell



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chan, Dark, Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-22
Updated: 2006-01-22
Packaged: 2018-10-26 08:38:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10783329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: During second year, Draco is sore after practice. Marcus offers to make it better. Unforunately Draco has no idea what 'making it better' will entail.





	Make It Better

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to my [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=schmoo999)[**schmoo999**](http://schmoo999.livejournal.com/) for reading this over and liking it enough to convince me to take a chance and post it. *hugs*  


* * *

He had never imagined that playing Quidditch could make his body feel so sore. He had been playing since he was a child, far younger than allowed. Father had taught him how to fly, how to play, and how to win. He had not received his own broom until he had gone to school, but he had perfected his flying by borrowing one of his father’s brooms even before he had received his letter of admission to Hogwarts.  
  
  
In all the years he had played, he had never felt so tired and his body had never ached as it did following the intensive practices he had endured since being offered a spot on his house team. Flint worked them hard, focused on winning in a way that Draco admired, and the team didn’t mind. They all wanted victory, especially against the Gryffindor’s. His determination to win was nearly equal to Flint’s. He knew the rumor that followed him around in smug whispers, the belief that his position had been purchased by his father and that he was lacking any real talent at the game.  
  
  
It was a bunch of lies, spread by Potter’s Mudblood , and he hated that people showed such little respect to him, to a Malfoy, by believing such ridiculous claims. It made him even more determined to practice longer and harder than his older teammates because he wanted to prove that he was good enough, to show that he had earned his spot because of his proficiency at the sport, to let everyone know that he was not some useless wizard lacking any real talent or skill. He would show them all, even if it meant flying until his arse and back were sore and his arms felt numb from the exercises he had been performing to increase his speed and ability to grab the Snitch faster than his opponent.  
  
  
Normally, he loathed being the smallest boy in his year within Slytherin. He knew from his father that Malfoys always grew to impressive heights usually following the summer after third year but such knowledge did not make it easier to deal with the fact that even Vince and Greg towered over him by several inches. In Quidditch, however, his height allowed him to go faster, the broom flying swiftly when not weighted down by a gangly and heavy frame. Flint had been pleased at his speed during practice the previous evening, giving him a wolfish smile before complimenting him on how well he was doing.  
  
  
Other than his father and his godfather, Flint was the person that Draco wanted to please the most. The older wizard had offered him a position on the team, believing in him even when others snickered and called him names when they thought he was unable to hear. No one would say anything to his face, fear of his father preventing any such public insults from those in his own house, but he heard them talking about him. The older witches said he was too pretty to be a wizard, with his pale blond hair and feminine features, while the older wizards said he was too smug and superior when he lacked the height and muscle to back up his condescending attitude.  
  
  
Flint, though, never said anything negative. Even when he was a first year, fresh from beneath the sorting hat and far more scared than he would ever admit even privately, Flint had focused his unreadable dark gaze on him and smiled slightly, a flash of teeth in the wolfish grin, before indicating a space beside him on the bench. All first year, Draco had followed Flint around, watching and listening. He had learned how to inspire fear in those around him, watching the way the older boy received respect and deference in even the strongest and wealthiest of Slytherins. Flint had control of almost everything in his life and Draco greatly admired that, seeing a bit of his father in the then sixth year student. True, Father was much more elegant and charming when manipulating people, but Draco had spent years watching his father gain the same respect and fear that Flint had at Hogwarts so he eagerly learned all he could from the older boy.  
  
  
Flint had never seemed to notice Draco’s attention, ignoring him most of the time, though Draco would sometimes catch dark eyes watching him, that same slight smile on Flint’s face that had been there during the welcoming feast his first year. When he had been made a member of the team, he had been elated. Not only to be an actual member during his second year, a feat not often achieved by any student, but also because it meant Flint believed in him. Earning the respect of the boy he idolized meant nearly as much as receiving a rare ‘well done, Draco’ from his father.  
  
  
Flint’s reputation was legendary. Draco had never heard a public negative comment about Flint, even from those who glared and followed the Qudditch captain with hate filled eyes. There were whispers, of course, just as there were whispered lies about him and nearly every other student at the school, but he put little faith in such ridiculous tales. The very idea that Flint had done some of the wicked things told to first years to scare them was completely unfounded. He would never lure first year wizards into dark rooms and do things that left them broken and bleeding.  
  
  
They called him a Troll, said he was an evil monster that preyed on young boys, eating them up while laughing wickedly. It was meant to scare the younger students, to give Flint a reputation that earned him the respect and fear he was given, and Draco knew it was a lie. Flint may not be good in his classes, but Draco knew he was brilliant. The plays he created, the strategies, the knowledge he possessed was far greater than anything learned in books. It was all a strategy and he would not be at all surprised if Flint had not begun the rumors himself.  
  
  
Draco entered his dorm, noticing that the other second year boys were gone. It was rather early, not yet dinner, so it was not unusual to find the dorm empty. He had been practicing after classes, ignoring the cold and flying simply to feel the wind against his face. However, the hours of flying and practice had caused the muscles in his arse and back to throb. He’d taken a long shower, letting the warm water wash away the sweat and ease the soreness a bit, and had decided to take a brief nap before dinner. The dorm was quiet save for Nott’s rat, who was rustling in his cage in a most annoying way.  
  
  
Pulling his jumper over his head, Draco neatly folded it and placed it on the chair beside his bed. Toeing off his shoes, he crawled into his bed, lying down with a soft sigh of contentment. He did not bother to remove his shirt or trousers, knowing he would only be taking a short nap before joining the others in the Great Hall. He cringed when he felt a familiar tightness in his lower back, his hand moving beneath him to rub the sore spot.  
  
  
“Need some help, boy?”  
  
  
Draco opened his eyes when he heard the voice, frowning when he looked up to see Flint leaning against the wall beside his bed. He had not heard the door open at all and detested being caught unaware. Father always said to be alert and know your surroundings, paying attention to every person around whether they were a threat or not. He asked crossly, “What are you doing here, Flint? This is the second year’s dorm.”  
  
  
“I know where I am, Malfoy. Did you want me to leave?”  
  
  
Draco suddenly realized that he had sounded rude, his cheeks flushing slightly as he mumbled, “Sorry, Flint. Don’t leave. Did you need something? Do you want to talk about practice tomorrow?”  
  
  
“I noticed you out flying earlier and thought you might be sore.” Flint gave him a long, unreadable look before suddenly grinning. “As team captain, it is my duty to insure that my players are happy and healthy. Roll over and I’ll make it better, boy.”  
  
  
“When Pucey fell off the broom two weeks ago, you didn’t even visit him in the infirmary,” Draco said slowly, wanting to understand why Flint was there offering to heal his sore muscles.  
  
  
“Pucey? The stupid fool was showing off and deserved to be hurt. You, though, well, you’re special, boy. Always been special.” Flint gave him that same look, the one that had Draco feeling nervous for some reason he did not quite understand.  
  
  
“I feel fine, but thank you for offering to heal me,” Draco said quietly, hoping Flint did not get upset at his refusal. It just felt odd to let Flint do unmonitored magic and Father would definitely be angry if something went wrong and he ended up hurt.  
  
  
“I’m disappointed, boy. I thought we were friends, that you trusted me.”  
  
  
“We are friends, Flint. Of course I trust you,” Draco stammered, feeling horrible for making Flint doubt his friendship. In a soft voice, he said, “Father would be upset if I let you heal me. I could never disappoint him.”  
  
  
“We can keep it our little secret, boy,” Marcus whispered, a cunning gleam in his eyes as his fingers tugged on the sheet, pulling it down to gather around Draco’s feet. “I tell you what. I won’t even use magic.”  
  
  
“Then how will you make it better?” Draco asked curiously, watching as Flint removed a small jar from the pocket of his robe.  
  
  
“It’s a special ointment, to relax muscles,” Flint explained. “You can’t tell anyone I have it because they wouldn’t allow me to use it.”  
  
  
“I won’t tell,” Draco assured him quickly, feeling pleased that Flint thought he was special and had trusted him with his secret.  
  
  
“We need to remove your clothes,” Flint told him huskily. “This ointment stains clothing and I wouldn’t want to ruin them.”  
  
  
“Okay.” Draco smiled a trusting smile as he sat up and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor beside his bed. His hands moved to the waist of his trousers and he began to unfasten them but Flint’s hand suddenly covered his.  
  
  
“Let me.”  
  
  
Draco did not protest, though he was a bit surprised at the harsh whisper of the other boy. He raised his hips as Flint unfastened his trousers, fingers moving against his flat stomach before the cloth slid down his legs. He felt a bit silly, lying on his bed wearing only his pants while the boy he idolized pulled his trousers from his feet. His pale skin had a tint of pink, showing his embarrassment at being seen in such a way by the older wizard.  
  
  
“So perfect, boy,” Flint mumbled as his dark eyes swept over Draco’s partially nude body.  
  
  
“Maybe you should give me the ointment and I can apply it myself,” Draco suggested softly, feeling awkward and a bit scared by the look in Flint’s eyes.  
  
  
“I am your captain, boy. It is my responsibility to make sure my special players feel good. Trust me, Malfoy. I’ll make it feel really good. Now turn over for me.”  
  
  
“I,” he hesitated, torn between pleasing Flint and feeling nervous about wearing only his shorts in front of the older boy. Not even Vince or Greg had seen him without his pajamas and they had been his best friends since he was a baby. This was different than taking a shower, where all of them were naked and no one stared at him with such intense eyes.  
  
  
“I guess I was wrong about you, boy. I thought you were special but I see you’re just like all the rest. Guess you’re not my special boy after all.” Marcus turned to leave, the look of disappointment obvious as he looked at Draco.  
  
  
“Don’t go,” Draco said desperately. “I am special. Please don’t be disappointed. I was just, I’m sorry. I’ll turn over for you, Flint.”  
  
  
“What do you want Malfoy?” Flint looked at him then, the same wolfish grin on his face, a flash of teeth that reminded Draco of a hunter after prey.  
  
  
Pushing aside his uncertainty and doubts, Draco did not hear the tremor of fear in his voice as he said, “I want you to make it better. Please?”  
  
  
“Good boy,” Flint gave him a proud smile as he walked back towards the bed, shrugging his robe off his shoulders. “I have no intention of allowing this to stain my clothes either,” he said as he stripped off his jumper and shirt.  
  
  
Draco watched him curiously, wondering if he could have hair on his chest and lower abdomen when he got to be as old as Flint. The dark-haired wizard was so large. Tall and broad, he was quite sure Flint’s arms were nearly as big around as Draco’s waist. Well, not that big but he looked terribly imposing during Quidditch matches much less moving towards him half naked.  
  
  
“You like watching me, don’t you, boy? Think I didn’t notice you staring at me all this time, but I noticed. Looking at me all the time, sneaking around and listening, those pale eyes of yours following me constantly.”  
  
  
“I’m sorry,” Draco muttered as he looked at the floor, embarrassed that he had been caught after believing himself to be secretive while watching the older wizard.  
  
  
“Don’t be sorry, boy. I like it. I like you watching me, wanting things you don’t even realize,” Flint chuckled as Draco looked up and frowned. “Roll over for me,” he demanded brusquely, his hands pushing his trousers down his legs, his shorts barely covering him.  
  
  
Draco’s eyes focused on the bulge pressing against Flint’s trousers, eyes widening slightly as he noticed the tip of his prick peeking out from the cloth. It was wet and purple, far larger than his own or even those of his friends that Draco had snuck curious looks at after he realized they all came in different sizes and shapes. He was surprised to see it move as he stared at it, wondering why it was twitching and not simply lying limply as his usually did.  
  
  
He had heard stories about sex, of course, and had received a talk from his father before being sent to school. He knew that his prick was for making heirs to the Malfoy name, that he was not allowed to let any Mudbloods or halfbloods to see or touch it, that it felt really good when he touched himself, that it would harden and leak profusely when he closed his eyes and thought of naughty things. He was a well-read child and had studied books on such matters after his talk with his father, wanting to understand in a way that Potter’s Mudblood would probably envy. It had confused him a bit, too young to really understand what it all meant, but he knew enough to realize that Flint was aroused.  
  
  
He just did not understand why because he only got that way when he was touching himself or thinking about the way Potter’s Mudblood’s skirt tightened across her arse when she bent over or the way Celia Jenson’s breasts nearly popped out of her robes every time she laughed in the common room when the other seventh year’s started telling jokes. There were also some times he had touched himself while thinking about the feeling of Blaise pressed against him when they’d been playing a game during the summer and had been hiding in a closet.  
  
  
“Roll over for me, boy.” Flint’s voice was thick and growly, offering no room for argument. Pulled from his thoughts, Draco immediately rolled over, moving into a comfortable position on his stomach. He sucked in a breath when the bed moved and Flint suddenly straddled him, resting his arse on the back of his legs but keeping his weight on his own legs, which were at either side of Draco.  
  
  
Large hands began to knead the muscles in his back, working deep and causing him to groan softly. Shifting on the bed, he realized that he could barely move with Flint above him. When he raised his arse, he felt something hard poking him, listening as Flint moaned softly. “Flint?”  
  
  
“Such a pretty little boy,” Flint said quietly from above him. Draco tensed when he felt the boy shift, his hands moving lower, fingers moving beneath the waist of his pants.  
  
  
“Wh-what are you doing, Flint?”  
  
  
“I’m making it all better.”  
  
  
Draco looked over his shoulder, surprised to see Flint looking at his arse with a look that he sometimes saw on Vince’s face when they were having cherry tarts for dessert. He wanted to protest when the older Slytherin began to ease down his pants. He wanted to say no because he knew this should not be happening, that Father would be most unhappy at him showing his bare arse to anyone even if it was a fellow Pureblood, but all he could do was watch with wide eyes full of fear and curiosity as the boy he admired removed his pants.  
  
  
“You’ve got such a gorgeous arse, boy. I’ve been wanting to do this for so long. Such a pretty little boy. My sweet boy. I bet you taste delicious.” Flint was speaking in a low voice as his hands began to knead the cheeks of Draco’s arse.  
  
  
He did not understand what was happening. Why was Flint fondling his arse and looking at him like that? He struggled beneath the weight of the older wizard, knowing this was not supposed to be happening, that it was wrong. The whispers and rumors suddenly filled his head, the stories of Flint doing wicked things to younger boys that he had dismissed as nonsense and lies. “Please don’t.”  
  
  
“Shh, boy.” Flint smiled, the look in his eyes reminding Draco of the time he had gone to visit his aunt Bella with his Mum at Azkaban, his fear all too real as felt a hard length pressing against his arse. “You’re going to love what I do to you. I know you will. I’ve seen it in your eyes. Watching me, wanting this, seducing me with those pale eyes and full lips. Relax and let me make it all better, my sweet boy.”  
  
  
Draco bit his lip to keep from gasping when he felt something wet slide between the cheeks of his arse. Flint’s hand was in the middle of his back, holding him firmly against the mattress with ease, and he knew it was pointless to scream because the common room was too far away for anyone to hear. Screaming might upset Flint and he hated the idea of angering his captain. He did not want to be a disappointment and lose the respect and admiration he had gained from the older wizard.  
  
  
Flint was licking his arse, he realized suddenly. Looking over his shoulder, he stared at the dark hair of the wizard who was nuzzling and licking his bum. It felt odd when the tongue moved over the tiny pucker between his cheeks, just one swipe of the tongue, broad and full, leaving him coated in saliva. Flint licked him in that way for a while, moving from cheek to cheek before again taking a long lick of his arsehole, biting him and spitting before licking more.  
  
  
Just when Draco started to relax, his hands still holding the blanket tightly between clenched fists, Flint removed the hand from his back. Fingers curled around each check of his arse, spreading him open to Flint’s hungry eyes. “Pretty little whore, aren’t you?” Flint muttered as Draco shifted on the bed, rubbing his prick against the covers as he realized it was beginning to tingle in the same way it did when he touched it. “Wanted this, wanted me, begging for it, for my cock up your tight arse, making you mine. My sweet boy, my sweet fuck.”  
  
  
Flint leaned forward then, his tongue stabbing into Draco’s arse, causing his body to press against the bed to avoid the intrusion. It burned as the tongue slid inside him, stretching him, fingers gripping the side of his pucker as his arse was spread open obscenely, letting Flint have better access. His muscles tensed, fighting the penetration, Flint’s tongue going deeper, stroking the walls of his arse, breath hot against his skin. A finger began to nudge him, sliding in beneath Flint’s tongue, pain causing him to cry out softly.  
  
  
“That’s it, boy. Cry for me, moan for me, beg me to fuck your tight arse,” Flint grinned as he removed his tongue, his eyes pitch black before he was against thrusting his tongue inside Draco. It was beginning to not be as painful, the finger still burning as it began to slide into him, but it was starting to feel nice, having the tongue licking him. He felt something sticky rubbing him, realizing that Flint’s finger was coated with the ointment.  
  
  
Draco buried his face in his pillow as Flint fucked him with his tongue. He knew the word for what was happening to him, hearing the vulgar Mudbloods saying it with leers and knowing smiles. Flint’s tongue was pressing against him, touching something inside his arse that caused his hips to buck forward, rubbing his prick against the covers. He moaned when he felt long fingers suddenly envelope his cock, twisting and tugging roughly as Flint continued to lap at his arse.  
  
  
Without realization, he began to move forward, into the large hand holding his small prick. Every move backwards sent Flint’s tongue and finger further into him. It still hurt but there was an awareness spreading over him, pleasure causing his body to become flushed and sweaty, soft moans and whimpers caught by his pillow. Then Flint’s tongue was out of him, licking down his body to suck on the flesh beneath his cock.  
  
  
“Such pretty balls, my sweet boy, and a lovely little cock,” Flint complimented him. “So smooth and perfect, just this little bit of hair starting to grow. Taste good, too. You are a special boy, so pretty and tight and tasty. I’m going to fuck you now, my dear boy. I’m going to bury my prick in your tight arse and make you mine. What do you say to that?”  
  
  
“Yes, please,” Draco whimpered as he felt the hand around his prick tighten, the strokes more hurried, his slim body moving against the bed as the large body behind him adjusted position, not caring what happened as long as Flint continued touching him. It felt so much better having someone else touch him than when he touched himself, his small body moving against the hand eagerly.  
  
  
“Just relax and let me make it all better, my sweet boy.” Flint laughed huskily when Draco cried out in pain as the head of his cock began to penetrate his saliva soaked arse. “So bloody tight.”  
  
  
It hurt so badly that Draco felt tears in his eyes. Any pleasure he had begun to feel faded instantly, replaced by sharp, dull pain that had his body trying to find an escape from the cock pressing into his tight arse. The finger had burned but this was far worse. Even after Flint’s licking and sucking, it burned and felt as if someone was shoving a broom inside him, deep and rough. He heard a groan from Flint as the blunt head suddenly forced its way inside him, whimpering in pain as the large cock began to stretch him even more than the tongue and finger had, his arse clenching and trying to force him out.  
  
  
Flint moaned as he continued shoving forward, oblivious to the pain and tears of the small boy beneath him. He gripped Draco’s hip, the hold so tight that Draco knew his pale skin would be covered by bruises when this was over. “Please no,” Draco whispered, “stop please.” His protests were ignored as Flint let out of a soft groan, burying his entire length deep inside Draco. He remained still for a moment, his hand beginning to stroke Draco’s prick and balls before he began to move.  
  
  
“My special boy. Wanted this, asked for this. So fucking tight,” Flint said above him, his words causing shame to spread over Draco. He had asked for this, though he had had no idea that this was what Flint had planned. This was his fault. He’d watched Flint, idolized the older boy, ignored the whispers and gossip, and he had only himself to blame for currently finding himself kneeling on his bed with Flint fucking him.  
  
  
The tears fell silently down his cheeks as Flint used him, going so deep with each thrust that Draco felt as if he were going to split open. His arse burned, protesting each stroke of the cock within him, and his back and hips were scratched and bruised from Flint’s attentions. He could feel coarse hair against his bare bum every time Flint sunk deep, rubbing against his sensitive skin, fingers continuing to twist and tug his prick.  
  
  
He came with a soft cry, forlorn and lost amidst the cursing and moaning of the large man fucking him, his seed spilling onto the large hand that continued to manipulate his prick even as it went soft. “That’s my boy. Came for me, just like the pretty little whore I knew you were. Good boy. My boy,” Flint cooed in his ear as his body pressed him flat against the mattress, teeth suddenly biting into his shoulder. He cried out in pain, bucking beneath the man fucking him, unable to free himself. His eyes closed as he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.  
  
  
Draco was shoved against the bed with each thrust, his cheek rubbing against his pillow, Flint’s body covered in sweat, the thick chest hair sticking to his back as his body completely surrounded Draco. He was pinned down, unable to move, his cries ignored, eyes closed tightly as he tried to think about anything other than what was happening to him. It had felt good at first, even as he knew it was wrong, but now, now he wished he’d never decided to take a nap.  
  
  
“Gonna come inside your tight arse, dear boy. Such a pretty boy, my boy,” Marcus continued whispering those words, his tone possessive and demanding, causing conflict within Draco. He wanted to please his captain, to not be a disappointment, but this hurt and he knew it was wrong. His father would be angry if he ever found out, would kill Flint for doing this to him and then he’d be so upset because Draco had unknowingly asked for this, asking Flint to make it better. He was stupid. So stupid and useless. This was his fault. All his fault.  
  
  
“Fuck,” Flint hissed before entering him deeply, something warm and wet flooding Draco’s arse. He stayed inside him, making shallow thrusts until finally pulling out. Draco could feel wetness dripping from his torn arse, unaware that it was a mixture of blood and semen until Flint laid beside him and grabbed his chin. Lifting Draco’s head from the pillow, Flint smiled before lazily licking away the tears on his face. Draco could see the streaks of blood joining with the come on Flint’s spent cock, cringing as he realized he was bleeding back there.  
  
  
“You did well, my sweet boy,” Flint said softly, fingers tenderly stroking his pale cheeks and the lines of his face.  
  
  
“I-I did?” His voice was little more than a whisper as he looked at his captain.  
  
  
“I knew you were a special one, Draco.”  
  
  
He’d called him Draco. It was the first time Flint had ever called him by his name. He blinked way his tears, giving the older wizard a tremulous smile. “You still think I am special?”  
  
  
“Oh yes, you’re my special boy. All mine, aren’t you, pet?”  
  
  
He was relieved that Flint was not disappointed in him for crying and asking him to stop. It had hurt and he’d not wanted it to happen but now Flint was looking at him with a hint of approval and satisfaction in his dark eyes, making him feel special and wanted. Draco grimaced at the pain in his arse, but ignored the throbbing as he looked at his captain and whispered, “Yes, all yours, Marcus.”  
  



End file.
